


Crush on You

by nowordstoexplain



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Barebacking, Choking, Co-workers, Consent Play, Crush at First Sight, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Enthusiastic Consent, Erotica, Face Slapping, Hollywood sex is ugly, Human/Monster Romance, Multi, Mutual Pining, Name-Calling, Nonbinary Character, Old Gods, Service Top, Sexual Tension, Spit Kink, Strangers to Lovers, Timmy has a crush, gay directors, lgbt friendly work spaces, oh also Timmy plays a an old god in a movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowordstoexplain/pseuds/nowordstoexplain
Summary: Your agent says it’s a complex, visually stimulating deconstruction of the relationship between passion and poison told through the lens of the erotic.What she means is that it’s a movie about sex.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Original Character(s), Timothée Chalamet/Reader
Comments: 21
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timmy is your co-star for an erotic indie movie about f*cking a demon. Don’t ask, I don’t know either...

Your agent says it’s a complex, visually stimulating deconstruction of the relationship between passion and poison told through the lens of the erotic.

What she means is that it’s a movie about sex.

To be fair, it’s more of a Film than a Movie, the lovechild of an art house director and her indie darling producer slash writer slash life partner.

And to be more fair, Sonia did direct your favorite Gender Nightmare horror film of all time (which is saying something, you’ve got impeccable taste when it comes to this one specific genre), and Wanda did write the shit out of that script, and together they are kind of a force to be reckoned with.

And as far as movies about sex go, **_Passion/Poison_** is hardly the worst project that’s been presented to you.

You’re young, and black, and most people you meet think you’re a woman, which means you’ve read a lot of screenplays that are indulgent to the point of parody.

More than one cis man director has offered you a role where at some point in the narrative you would have to strip down naked and stand in front of a scattering of candles slathered in actual literal olive oil.

_**Passion/Poison**_ is a terrible name for a movie, but the writing is solid and the characters are compelling and also, the leading man is rumored to be Timothée fucking Chalamet.

Actual literal Timothée Chalamet playing an Old God summoned by a naive college student with a sex addiction.

Timothée Chalamet, whose lines would include (and this is actually in the script) shit like “I am going to wring every last drop of pleasure from your body, little one” and “I am going to dig into you so good and deep you will feel it from your throat to your toes ” and “What a pretty little picture you make, what a sweet little puppy”

_Sweet little puppy_!

You gasp out loud when you read it the first time, press your thighs together, mouth filling up thick and warm as you realize your character, Vivian, will be humping his leg as he says it, that his hands will be in your hair pulling your head back until you keen with it, his voice like whiskey and honey in your ear.

The next time you see your agent, you ask her to personally relay to Sonia and Wanda just how utterly depraved you think they both are, how they both terrify you in ways that cannot be put into words, and just how deeply you respect them.

You say yes. Obviously.

So does Timothée. At first you think Sonia is joking when she confirms the rumors. His last project was, after all, a Wes Anderson feature about an awkwardly upbeat incel-type who finds himself through the art of puppet-making.

And yes it does get nominated for an Oscar because of course it does and yes it does deserve it because of course it does.

(He doesn’t win, obviously, because he’s nominated in the same category as Janelle Monáe in a Prince biopic and well, it’s fucking Janelle Monáe as fucking Prince)

(When the camera pans to him to catch his reaction to losing he’s grinning and whooping and clapping so hard Kid Cudi has to hold him steady by the shoulders so he doesn’t knock himself out, and a part of you thinks “ok, he can have rights, just this once...”)

He doesn’t exactly scream morally bankrupt sex demon, doesn’t carry himself like the kind of freak that will french kiss a big toe and pull it off. He’s wiry, and he’s goofy and handsome yes, but sweet like cherry pie, boyish and eager to please.

He’s got a brand and it suits him and he seems to like it well enough, but there you sit at your first table read and there he is, walking in pink cheeked and curly haired like a cherub, wearing an eggshell mohair sweater that sits like a dream on him, legs wrapped in better soft black denim, padding up to say his greetings in beat up converse.

It’s kind of iconic actually, showing up to your first day of sex god duty with your soft boy turned up to eleven.

It both surprises you and doesn’t that he’s actually as lovely as he seems in interviews, ducking his head all bashful and laughing his awkward little laugh, charming everyone so easily that it might come off as an act if he didn’t seem so flustered by the positive reception.

He greets every member of cast and crew present with the same amount of respect, lets Sonia and Wanda fuss over him.

And then he’s looking up and catches you taking him in, smiles a shy little smile at you before you can look away, lifts his hand up like he’s gonna wave and then drops it like he’s just realized he can just walk over and sit next to you and introduce himself properly.

He walks over. Sits next to you.

Says “My name is-“ 

And you say “Yeah, I know, you’re Timothée Chalamet, we all know who you-“

And he kind of quirks his eyebrow and smirks a little like “I was going to say Timmy”

“Oh”

“Yeah”

He chews his gum at you, smugly. You sink into your chair a little.

He tells you he loved you in the My Sister The Serial Killer adaptation, and you ask if he’s read the book and he rolls his eyes, grinning like _Yeah, Of Course_.

You tell him you’re impressed like you mean _Ok, I Get It, You’re a White Man That Reads Black Women Authors, Welcome to The Party That You’re Already Incredibly Late To_.

He tilts his head to the side like _You Got Me_.

You decide that you like him at the same moment you see the little glint in his eyes like he’s deciding the same thing.

Sonia gives her opening speech. Talks about taboo and pleasure and exploitation and keeping things balanced. Wanda explains her writing process a little bit, makes a joke about finally writing the erotica her thirteen year old self could have only dreamed of.

They talk about intimacy and balancing work and play and tension and character.They look at you and Timothée. He sits up at the same time you do.

“As I’m sure you’ve all noticed,” Sonia says, “this is not a lighthearted story we’re telling...it’s raw, it’s ugly, it’s funny and sad and-“

“ _Sexy_ ,” Wanda says with a wicked grin “It’s raunchy, it’s steamy. Timmy, there’s a scene where you literally spit-“

“The scene where I eat her out until she cries and then spit her cum back into her mouth?”

Everyone kind of shifts in their seats, because yeah, they all remember _that_ scene. 

You shift and shiver, thinking about those words coming out of his pretty mouth, rolling off his tongue like he just says stuff like that all the time.  
  
 _Does he?_

“...while I’m going for realism here, real touches, real kisses, real longing and desire...” Sonia says, turning to Wanda, prompting her.  
  
“We feel like Hollywood Sex is overplayed, and it’s mechanic, and it turns real intimacy into this gummy, plastic, inhuman thing...”

She cringes, and the sentiment carries.

You nod, let them both know that’s what you want too, that’s what drew you to this story, a depiction of sex that isn’t bathed in roses or sanitized with rubbing alcohol.  
  
“I remember reading all the bits where Vivian curls in on herself and clutches her stomach because she’s having an orgasm that’s so good it actually hurts, and she’s crying and laughing...we can all relate to the fear of wanting to let go completely and...sorry, I just wanted to say I’m ready to push myself...”

Timmy turns to you, and you meet his eyes. He’s looking at you like you’re _Something_ , eyes dark and impressed and wanting, a little bit like he wants to push you far as you’ll let him.

They’ve got you signing waivers, because the kind of intimacy required for this role requires lots of paperwork.

“That being said,” Wanda stresses, “Consent is still _key_ here. We’re going to put the both of you in some uncomfortable positions, so to speak...but you can always say no. We can always work around it...”

Timmy nods and you nod and you don’t make eye contact.You worry that he can see just how willing you are to be put into an uncomfortable situation with him. 

You risk a sidelong glance at him and think that maybe you can see it too, all the ways he might want you. 

Judging by the sly way he shifts his hips in his chair like you can’t see his dick print straining up against pants that fit like a second skin. 

The way he spreads his legs a little and smiles like he’s caught you looking, likes he’s putting on a show.

Sonia clears her throat. Wanda grins like she’s having the time of your life. 

They give you and Timmy matching _Looks_.

“Well, since organic tension clearly isn’t an issue here, let’s start from the top, yeah?”

And so it begins.


	2. Chapter 2

Indie directors are the worst.  


So earnest and wrapped up in telling personal, compelling stories, so hands-on with everything, calling the cast and crew “this family” like they’re not being paid to be here. 

And the snack tables are always the fucking worst. Organic crackers and grapes and goat cheese. All find and good, if it’s a brunch date, if there’s mimosas involved.  


But on long shooting days, You need tons of sugar and heaps of salt and a whole bottle of blue food coloring to function. You’re pretty sure it’s in your contract. A pack of skittles a day clause, at the very least. 

Your agent will never hear the last of this. 

You hate Sonia specifically. So sweet and focused and likable. So visionary, such an eye. And such a fucking theatre kid it’s not even funny. 

She’s got everyone doing actualicebreakers, like it’s a middle school production of _**Bugsy Malone**_ and not  _**Sexual Deviancy: The Feature Film** _ . 

She’s even got everyone in a name tag with their pronouns listed out, and she’s firm with anyone who’s a little lazy about using your “they/them”, so respectful it makes your teeth hurt. You like her so much and you don’t know why she’s making you do this.

Well, you know why. It’s because Wanda is an evil genius and Sonia is so in love with them she may as well have a sign on her forehead that says “I would let them use me as a footstool, and I’d like it.”

They’re such a lovely couple. When you do snap and murder them, you’ll do it tastefully. 

It’s mostly been your scenes up until this point, so you haven’t even seen Timmy in weeks. By now you know your way around the set, you’ve got a few drinking buddies, someone to bitch about craft services with, at least once person you can play cards with. You’re in your element. 

And then he walks in. And he’s wearing his costume, and he’s in his makeup, and you don’t know what they’ve done to his hair, but it’s darker and wilder and it does something obscene to the cut of his jaw, the look of his eyes.  


When your eyes meet an actual shiver runs up your spine. 

He licks his teeth like he’s going to take a bite out of your throat as he takes you in, shameless about it. 

They’ve got you in custom Fenty, a little emerald green slip, barely just a scrap of silk with a lace trim, one of the straps carefully arranged to always hang off your shoulder just a little bit.  


Your dreads cascade down your back, your baby hairs soft and wild at your temples, twists loose enough that your the hair underneath can breathe. 

They’ve got your makeup done like you haven’t slept in a week, dark eye bags and sharp edges like you’ve survived your whole life off black coffee and addy and red vines and not much else.  


It’s a really good look for you. 

Clearly Timotheé thinks so too. He’s really not being subtle about it, looking his fill. You’re not subtle either. You love a man in leather pants, a man in silver chains and jewels on his fingers, in a fur coat and not much else. 

Plus, he’s got horns, sprouting out from the nest of his hair, thick and sharp and curling in at the tip, like a goat’s. It’s a really good look for him.

You wave slow, one finger at a time, a tease.  _I would do terrible things to you, if you’d let me_ . 

He cocks an eyebrow, tips his chin up like  _I Dare You._

And then in comes Sonia, and in comes Wanda, and they’re bubbling with excitement, which is never a good thing. 

“I had this brilliant idea,” says Wanda, and you think  _Here We Go_

“So, this is your first meeting after the ritual. He’s in your bedroom, and he knows what you want from him, and he’s not giving it to you. He’s holding back, he’s walking around like he owns the place, but he won’t even touch you. He wants you to beg, except-“ 

“Vivian doesn’t beg for dick,” you say dryly.   


Timmy snorts. Wanda claps like  _bingo!_

“Vivian doesn’t beg for dick!” she says, delighted. “She’s stubborn, she’s sure of herself, she summoned Rafael out of sheer curiosity, and in her mind this is her game and he’s just playing it.” 

“And in his mind,” Timmy adds, “She’s prey. He’s playing with his food, humoring her.He knows she’s gonna give in...” 

_When did he get so close?_

It’s like he’s saying it just for you to hear, even though he’s not even looking at you. 

You get a brief flash of a thought, his hands brushing your hair back from your neck, the soft brush of his fingertips, his breath on your ear as he leans down to speak. 

_ I know you’re gonna give in . I’m patient enough ,  I’ll wait .  _

“We need the audience to pick up on that tension right away,” says Sonia. “I want it made clear right right from the first moment, that they want each other, like, really, really want each other.” 

She wants the both of you projecting so much desire that every moment they’re not touching each other is almost dangerous.  


Sexual chemistry like a ticking time bomb. 

They have you sit across from each other in the bedroom set, encourage you to talk to each other while they set up gear.  


You end up criss-cross on the mattress. Vivian is a 22 year old grad student, so it’s not really a big bed, and they’ve got you sitting so close your knees are touching. 

Someone’s made the decision to smudge Timmy’s eyeliner, mixed in with specks of silver glitter. He looks like a rockstar, like he just rolled out of bed.  


He runs a hand through his hair like a nervous habit, and his fingernails are painted dark red. He’s got bigger hands than you thought. 

He’s got bigger everything. He’s not exactly thick with bulging muscles, but he’s taller than you, shoulders broader than yours. He’s strong like a dancer is, could probably lift you up and over his head with a good enough grip on your waist. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you.  


You go  _huh_ and his mouth twitches up at the corner like he thinks you’re funny.  He says  _this might sound weird but I think I’ve seen everything you’re in_ and you go _hmmm_ _that does sound weird actually_ and he goes  _it’s not my fault you’ve got the range_ and you go  _you’re damn right I do_ like he hasn’t got you flushed up, preening. 

He’s blushing a little bit too. He ducks his head, smiles with his tongue caught between his teeth, boyish. 

He looks up at you from beneath his eyelashes. Gestures to the bustle of cast and crew around them. 

“I’ve never done this before...”

“Timmy, you make like five movies a year-“

He giggles “I mean, I’ve never done a movie like this...it’s kind of out of my element...”

“You don’t say...” you fix him with a _look_ , let him see your teeth. “Never would have pegged you for a secret sex fiend, but I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover.” 

“Guess you can’t...” he fixes _you_ with a look of his own, pauses like he’s considering, like he doesn’t know if he should say what he wants to say, and then he says it anyway. “I almost said no...” 

“What made you change your mind?” 

He holds your eyes, doesn’t say anything for long enough that you get it. You dig your fingers into the sheets to give your hands something to do. His eyes flick down to the movement and back up to yours, considering. He hums low in his throat and says  _I know this game_ . 

He’s baiting you and you know it, going for casual and failing. He says  _We don’t have to_ , like he already knows you’re gonna say yes, like he means  _I dare you_ . 

You know what game he’s talking about. It’s usually one of the first things a director will have you do with your costars.  


You’re going to be Vivian and he’s going to be Rafael and you’re going to ask each other questions that make you think about what your character would say, who they are, what they like.  


It’s a good idea, I’m theory, getting each other comfortable in your roles, but the stakes are a little higher, tension as the driving force of the back and forth. 

He’s not going to ask Vivian where she grew up or what her favorite cereal was as a kid.  


His only want as a character is to push her buttons, to tease her unspoken desires out into the open, his only need to take her apart piece by piece. 

The set’s gone quiet, sensing the tension.

They’re probably recording some test footage, camera zoomed all the way in to catch every twitch, every breath, every heated glance.

The urge to shrink away from the audience is strong, but Timothée keeps his eyes deliberately set on yours, tilting his chin up slightly like  _ don’t look at them, it’s just me and you, sweetheart .  _

You breathe in once, ground yourself, close your eyes as you transform the rush of anxiety into something else, until you become someone else. 

When you open your eyes, you’re Vivian. 

You’re Vivian and you haven’t slept all night and you wake up and there is a creature from hell on your bed, and he is running his eyes over you like he’s trying to find a lose thread on your skin, like he wants to watch you unravel. It sets you on edge.

_Get away from me or I’ll send you back to the cesspit you crawled out of_ , you say. 

Rafael grins, slow and sure. 

  
_I don’t think you will_ , he says, and then before you can speak, _h_ _ow long has it been since your last good fuck, hm?_

You tell him to fuck off, which clearly delights him. He coos at you like you’re just so cute, and you want to sink your teeth into him, make him bleed.

_You’ve been so hungry haven’t you?_ he simpers , _so empty without a cock between your legs._

He’s so fucking  _vulgar_ . It’s disgusting. You tell him as much. 

_I am_ , he says, grinning wide like he’s reminding you that he’s got teeth too, much, much sharper than yours, like he wants you to know that he could make  you bleed, that it would be so very easy, that he’s choosing not to.  


That he could change his mind any minute. 

_ And yet ,  your mouth is waterin _ _g_. He sweeps his eyes shamelessly down to your chest, and he doesn’t need to tell you that your nipples are hard where they brush up against the fabric of your slip.  


He merely holds his gaze, drinking you in, takes his time meeting your eyes again. His tongue flicks out, quick and pink, across his bottom lip. He breathes out deep, scrunches his brows together with absolute seriousness.

_You’re a pretty little bitch, aren’t you?_

Your hand flies out. You don’t even know you’re going to slap him until you do but you don’t get very far.  


You don’t even see him move but he’s got an iron-grip on your wrist, and he’s not budging. His eyes are laughing, and his smile is cruel, taunting. 

_You don’t want to do that, honey. I give as good as I get._

You bare your teeth at him.  _ So do I .  _

He grins, runs his tongue over his teeth . _I’m counting on it_ , he says.  


He jerks you forward, knocks you off balance so that you’re grabbing at the lapels of his jacket, fingers digging into the soft fur, hanging off him like he’s your salvation. 

He dips his head down to speak right into your ear, tightening his grip when you whine low in your throat. 

_I asked you a question, puppy, and I expect you to answer it,_ he growls _. How long?_

_Don’t call me_ , you start to say, but he cuts you off with a hand in your hair, yanking back until your throat is bared to him, until your eyes roll back and your tongue goes heavy in your mouth, until you’re panting, heaving.  


Like a desperate little puppy. 

“Holy fuck,” someone breathes, maybe Wanda. 

Timmy holds you like that for a second longer before letting go of your hair, loosening his grip on your wrist, turning to their audience. 

“Good?” He says, casual, like he hadn’t called you a  _pretty little bitch_ like a second ago,  _what the fuck_ _._  


He doesn’t let go of your wrist, just runs his thumb back and forth over your skin like he’s trying to ground you. 

“Good? That was fucking perfect!”

“You both need to see this, it’s _gold_ ,” Sonia breathes, staring at the camera skin like it holds the secrets to the universe, like it’s a crystal ball and the future is looking bright.

Timmy’s still got his hand on your wrist, pulls you up with him and walks you over to her like you won’t know what to do without his touch, takes the lead like he knows you need it. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> planning on updating but not sure what the interest is like so

leave me a comment and let me know if I should keep going? I’ve got some ideas but I’m not sure if anyone’s gonna come back to this lmao


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> almost there...

He's never seen himself like that. The person he sees onscreen in front of him is a stranger wearing his skin. It's not just the clothes, the dark eye makeup, the horns. That's all jarring, yes, but he's never been one to play it safe with his aesthetic anyway. He likes pretty things, silks and velvets, bright colors and shimmer and yes, sometimes he gets a little cocky and ends up looking like a sanitation officer, but there's nothing wrong with that, he thinks. He likes to surprise himself, to push himself out of his comfort zone. That's why hes an actor. despite his anxiety, the nervous ball of energy in his chest that he can't really hide, not even when he's getting interviewed, not even after all this time. 

He's not anxious with Nyx. He thought he would be. He's been following their career for a while. They broke unto the indie scene at eighteen, about a year before he even got his big break, doing the kind of daring, shocking character pieces that at the time he never even considered going for. never saw himself pulling it off. They did an indie horror film their first time, a risky move, because if it pans then you're just the bad actor from that shitty horror movie, or worse, you become a meme, doing meme work for the rest of your career. 

Nyx did an indie horror film about a young trans kid whose mother keeps them locked up in the basement, trying to force them into the perfect little girl. It's a psychological horror, brutal and heart-wrenching to watch, and they shine in it, stepping into the role like a second skin. There's a moment in the film where they've cut their own hair off with a piece of broken glass and their mother finds them and flies into a religious rage about it; Most new actors would play the next lines over the top and righteously furious but Nyx...Nyx looks at her with dead eyes and smiles this piss and acid, rabid dog smile and says "If you're looking for your little girl, you're never gonna find her, because I snapped her fucking neck" so syrupy sweet and evil that Timmy got chills. Actual chills, like pins and needles crawling up his spine. 

Nyx became a right Scream Queen (the general public is largely indifferent to Nyx's queerness, in the sense that they get that they're bisexual but they struggle with the non binary part...the press think their gender identity is just some kind of feminist statement, which is a lot to unpack...). It was all horror films, psychological thrillers, them playing the complex villain, the sympathetic monster. They clearly had a type of film they went for and excelled in that role, the darker the better. Timmy wasn't lying when he'd told them he'd watched everything they'd been in. And he wasn't lying when he told them they were the reason he'd agreed to do this film. 

Well, according to his agent, it was also a good move career-wise, _diversifying your portfolio_ , that kind of thing. He couldn't play the wide eyed pretty boy his whole career, and you didn't really want to. It all kind of felt like fate. 

The first moment he saw them, he thought he'd be shitting bricks, tongue tied, a deer in the headlights. And he kind of was, for a second. They were a force of nature on film and a goddamn sight to behold live and in person. The same dark eyed stare, like they could see right through you, like they were sizing you up and you didn't impress them much. Their aura, like someone took a rock star from the seventies and dropped them right into 2020; dark tees and ripped jeans and scuffed leather boots. The look of them, straight out of his daydreams, the sardonic curl of their plush mouth, their easy masculinity (no posturing, nothing mean spirited about it, no need to wag their dick around like a little kid), their sharp femininity, so much like the goddess of chaos they'd named them-self after. 

Timmy had taken one look at her and almost sprinted out of the room. 

And then they'd opened their sharp little mouth to make some bitey little comment, and he'd thought, _what a little brat_. A new thought for him, a new feeling, like they were a cat with their hackles raised and he knew just how to handle them. He'd become an actor because it helped him with his anxiety, because it made him feel like he was wearing his skin, less like it was wearing him. It was one of the only things that made him feel sure, something he didn't need to second guess. 

Acting, and now this little back and forth he had going with Nyx. 

He'd say something to them and they'd go for his throat and he'd give as good as he got and they'd get this flicker in their eyes like they were pleased, like they liked it when he let them show him their teeth, liked it when he looked at them like he wanted to eat them up. 

He did. 

Watching them do their thing, live and in person, was like witnessing something sacred. The way they became Vivian, embodied her fear, her anger, her pleasure. They actually moaned out loud, more than once, like it wasn't just a table read, like they didn't know how to give anything less than their all. It was so hot he had to take a bathroom break each time, just to get some cold water on his face and grip the edge of the sink and breathe. 

He knew that they knew where he where he was going, what he was doing, and he couldn't wait to get that smug look of their between his hands and wipe it off. 

They make him bold. The way they look at him, the weight of their desire, it made something curl inside his chest, hungry. They push his buttons, they let him push right back. He gets his hands on them and it's like he's short-circuiting, his whole world shrinking down to the heat of their skin, the give of it as he sinks his fingers into their arm. 

They're shaking by the time he's done with them, and he hasn't even gotten his mouth on them. He's saturated with lust, might come in his pants if they keep looking at him like that, like he's going to fucking ruin them and they're going to thank him for it. 

He's not opposed. 

He doesn't let go of them for longer than he should, keeps their wrist wrapped up in his hand while they watch their little scene play out on a screen in front of them. It's like a lifeline, he thinks, grounding him, grounding them both. He didn't know what he looked like when he looked at them. He didn't know how obvious it was, the way he wanted them. He feels bad for the crew, how they'll have to watch that everyday for the next couple months. 

"Looks good," he says, which is an understatement. 

\---

Wanda wants them to do the exercise by themselves, on their own time, in-between filming. 

"I know your days off are yours, but-" 

"I'm cool with it, if Timmy is," says Nyx, looking at him like _pussy if you don't_. They're such a little shit. He wants to wrap his hand around their throat until they settle down, looking up at him wide eyed, finally going soft and quiet. Now that he knows what it looks like he's a little bit addicted to it, might actually die if he doesn't get another taste. 

They want to do it at their place. It'll probably help them feel more in control like that, letting him prowl if it's on her turf. They've got an apartment downtown, in a neighborhood bursting with life, loud music and immigrant-owned stores. 

It's a nice apartment, cosy, well-decorated but not overly manicured. It's got a lot of personality, lots of plants, a record player in the living room, a zebra print rug, a hand-embroidered tapestry hung up on the wall. They let him pick record and he puts on old Gorillaz, like a twat. 

"You're such a little hispter, I swear to god..." 

"And you're not?" he scoffs, "it's your record...bet you don't even believe in god, do you?"

They smile, slow and mean, pink tongue sweeping over their sharp little teeth. "Everyone believes in god sometimes, Timmy." 

He takes the bait. "What, like when they're being facetious?"

"Or when they're getting fucked so good they feel it in their toes..." they purr. 

Timmy's mouth goes dry, all the blood in his body rushing down to his cock. He takes a step towards her, hands clenching and unclenching. They smile all serene at him, like he's not going to fuck them up, make them beg for it. "I'm guessing we're not gonna get to the exercise," they say. 

"No, I don't think so," he breathes. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> comment what kind of sex you want them to have lmao

Nyx is a tease, and they know it. It's on a list of their favorite things about themselves. (Top of the list is their sense of style, their impeccable taste in interior design, vintage records, psychedelics...)

They've got Timmy right where they want him, standing tall and tense in their apartment, breathing deep and slow like he's trying to hold himself together. He wants them so bad--it's cute. He wants them so bad he'd taken the train downtown for them, brought them a bottle of wine and some fresh strawberries in a brown paper bag like an offering, dressed up all pretty for them. He's wearing an old Arctic Monkey's tee, well-worn and a little too big for him, plaid pants in a neutral grey-blue tone, a familiar pair of beat up high tops. 

There's a delicate silver crucifix on his neck. All Nyx can think is how much they'd like to get their hands on it, how it'll hang in their face when he fucks them, face-to-face, breathing each other's air; how it'll swing back and forth, how solid it'll feel between their teeth when they take it into their mouth. 

"I really wanna kiss you," he says, like it's a secret, slow and quiet, fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. 

"I'll let you," they say, looking up at him from underneath the dark sweep of their lashes. He nods, says okay, takes a step towards him. It feels like he's advancing, like he's itching to take a bite out of them. Once he's close enough to get a proper feel of them, they twirl out of his way, amble towards the bottle of wine left unattended on the coffee table. 

"Damn, you're really gagging for it, huh?" they say, studying the bottle, twirling it in their hands slowly. "How much was this? $20?"

"$80, actually." He has the good sense to look bashful. They raise an unimpressed eyebrow at him, relish in the way it sets him on edge, the sharp clench of his jaw. 

"Oh, so you brought me shitty wine..." 

He doesn't say a word, standing sure and straight, so much taller than them that they have to tilt their head up to meet his eyes. He's not smiling but his eyes are sparkling with something dark and amused like he's letting them get away with this, letting them run their mouth. 

They narrow their eyes at him, hold the neck of the bottle in-between their fingertips like it offends them. "Get me a new bottle" they huff. He raises an eyebrow back, crosses his arms, muscles tensing. 

"You're such a little _princess_ , do you know that?"

They really like that, the way he says princess, the way he spits it, the contrast, sweet and mean, just like they want it. 

"What, you don't know your way around a bodega?"

He goes quiet, quiet enough for long enough that they start to shift a little uncomfortably, digging their feet into the furry rug. They open their mouth to say something else, something bitey and mean, needing his attention on them, even if they have to prod it out of him. He shushes them. 

_Oh_ , they think. _That's new_. 

He settles down on their couch, makes himself at home, spreads his legs, chuckles deep and wicked when their eyes drop down to the crotch of his pants, mouth watering at the bulge of it.

 _I_ _know he's got a big dick, I just know he does_. 

"C'mere," he says. They give him a look like he's lost his mind, even they warm up under their clothes, pressing their legs together at the unyielding desire flaring up between their legs. He snaps his finger at them, crooks them hard, says _come here, sweetheart_ , a little firmer this time, just as quiet. They take a hesitant step towards him, and he's chuckling again, shaking his head. 

"I didn't say walk, baby," he says, smiling so sweetly, cat that got the cream, "get on your hands and knees for me, that's a good boy."

 _Christ_. It's a bad habit, how easy it is for them to fall under. All it takes is a firm tone of voice, some condescending words, someone who knows how to put them in their place.

They could give into it, do what he says, sweet and pliant, but they're not sweet and pliant for just anyone. They need to know that he can back up all his talk. It's one thing when he's playing pretend, reading some lines, sure of himself only in terms of his ability to be someone else. 

They want to know what _he's_ going to do with them. 

They stand their ground. He looks at them, tilts his head to the side, breathes _okay_ under his breath. He stands up, walks up to them, steady and sure, gets a hand into their hair before they can blink, digs in and pulls their head back hard. 

He leans down into them, presses a kiss to their neck, bites down a little. "If you want me to stop, or to go easy on you in any way, now is the time to tell me." They shake their head as much as they can and he tightens his grip, helping them along, laughing at them like he thinks they're a dumb little toy. "When I tell you to do something, I suggest you do it. _Kneel_ "

They kneel. He tugs them along by their hair, sits back down on the couch, sets them between his thighs. "I know you just want to be sweet to me. I know you just need a little coaxing," he says, syrupy sweet even as he squeezes their face between his hands. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh...this was something...that i wrote...definitely wrote this...
> 
> chapter warning: smut, slapping, spit, mean names, a little bit of daddy kink
> 
> (lemme know what you think...)

It has all been building up to this. Every too-long look, every touch like lightning, every word exchanged, listening to what is being said and stealing looks too, lingering on the lips, the wet tongue inside that hot mouth, tongue-tip creeping out to wet that plush bottom lip, to run like a river over the cupids bow curve of the top lip. Barely a month of filming, barely any scenes together at this point, and yet, all that tension mounting, loaded like a weapon. 

He’s got them right where he wants them, kneeling between his legs like they were made for it, pressing their face into his thigh, so bashful, like he doesn’t get to see their pretty face after all this work he’s put in. He pets their hair and laughs at them, low and mocking. His sweet little puppy, panting for him, all of that bravado melting out of them so easy. 

“Been gagging for this,” he coos. They shake their head, and he tugs them up to look at him, real mean about it, grabbing a fist full of hair at the root. “Yeah, honey, you have. Put on a real good show, didn’t you?”

“Please,” they whine, so needy. They’ve gone dark-eyed, got this spacey look in their eyes like when they were on set, like all it takes is a little roughing up to put them under. They’re so pretty like this, sweet and stupid with lust, pouty mouth dropping open on each little whine, eyebrows scrunched up, tongue slipping out like they want something in their mouth. He sizes them up until they’re shifting around, trying to get some pressure between their legs. 

“What, you’re hard?” He sneers, grinning, feeling wicked, blood pulsing under his skin, something wolfish unfurling in his chest, hungry. “Bet you’re making a mess…”

They’re probably wet, probably wearing dainty panties, too pretty to touch, too pretty not to. There’s so much he wants to do to them. 

_ Could make them hump his thigh until they come in their pants, could wrap a hand around their throat until they’re gasping for air, could bend them over his lap and smack their ass until they’re squirming, until the skin is hot to the touch...could hold them by the cheeks and make them stick their tongue out while he strokes himself, teasing them, maybe rub the tip of his dick back and forth over their hot pink tongue until he comes on their face, could rub it in, make it nasty… _

He groans, says  _ open that pretty mouth for me, stick out your tongue, c’mon, let me see it _ , and they do, so good for him. 

“You were such a fucking brat, talking all tough…” He slips his thumb into their mouth, eyes almost rolling back in his head when they latch onto it, cheeks hollowing, sucking him tight like they’ve got something to prove. 

_ Could get real mean with it, slap them across the face, once, twice, hard enough to make their eyes water, could spit in their mouth and watch them swallow it… _

“Fuck, honey, you have no fucking idea…”

It was heady, a rush, what they did to him. He was usually so sweet, so fucking gentle. Loved to fuck slow and steady, to go down on his partner until their thighs shook around his head, until they begged him to stop, until they were chanting his name like a prayer, voice breaking, raw and ragged. He was always such a giver, fucking into them just how they liked, shifting their hips on every other thrust until he was hitting them where they needed, until they were gasping with it, clenching around him so perfect. 

He didn’t have many partners who wanted it like this, who wanted him to be sweet-mean, sneer  _ desperate little slut _ while he stroked their face, who wanted it hard enough to bruise, wanted him to tell them what they were gonna get and take a firm hand with them when they got greedy. He wanted to give them all of it, to make them come again and again and again, let them push him around a little and push right back. 

“Take your clothes off…” he said, deciding all at once what it was that he wanted, what he was gonna give them. They blinked up at him, eyes far-away like they didn’t hear a word he said, and he pulled his finger out their mouth, mocking their little whine, patting their face hard enough that they knew he wasn’t playing with them, not-quite a slap, just a warning. “Take your fucking clothes off, and gimme a show, huh?”

They stood up slow, trying and failing to hide the cocky look in their eye, their little smirk, like they knew exactly how much it’d fuck him up to watch them strip for him, baring themselves inch by inch. They’d dressed up for him, he knew that, though they’d tried to make it look casual, in their little black mohair shorts, a matching cropped sweater, soft as kitten fur. They started with the sweater, fingering the hem with their teeth sunk into their bottom lip, playing coy like they’d never done this before. 

_ Fucking tease _ . 

They had a moth tattooed between their breasts, and his heart did a double beat at the silver barbells in their nipples, mouth filling up with spit. 

_ Bet they’re sensitive right there. Bet if I got them in my mouth and bit down hard they’d mewl and shake and grip my shoulders, dig their nails into me. Could make them come like that, make them grind up on my thigh while I teased them with my mouth. There’d be a wet spot on my pants from it. Could make them lick it up.  _

_ “ _ Pretty little bitch, aren’t you?” He said, heat pooling between his hips. They threw him a wink, fucking cutie, and then eased their shorts off, revealing more ink, a word beneath each hipbone.  **PRETTY BOY** .

He was right about the panties. They had little sheer ones on, lavender, cut high above the hips. He said,  _ turn around for me _ , and they did, so that he could see the way their ass sat plump like a peach, and another tattoo on their lower back, a delicate little butterfly that he was itching to get his mouth on, to kiss while they were on their hands and knees, trying to stay still for him so they could get a reward. 

_ Could make them spread themself open just to watch their hole twitch for me, could lick a long stripe from their pussy all the way up, shove their face down into the sheets, get them so desperate they drool with it.  _

“C’mere,” he says. They raise a petulant eyebrow, gone so long without his hands on them that they’re back to their senses, a little bitchy, all teeth, just the way he likes them. 

“Do I get to use my legs, or are you back on your little power trip?”

He hums, stands up, walks over to them like before, except this time, when he gets to them, he does slap them, hard enough to make them gasp, barely give them a second to recover before he gets his hand around their throat, gripping tight. 

“How about this…” He leans down to their ear to speak, let’s his voice drop deep and dark “..the only thing I wanna hear from you is please, and thank you...anything else and I will fuck you up bad, do you hear me?”

_ Yes _ , they say,  _ yes _ , and  _ please _ and  _ thank you, daddy _ . 

He lets them suck his dick, because they’re being so sweet. How could he not? He teases them with it, first, (how could he not?) and makes them stick out their tongue and he rubs the head of his dick back and forth over it until they’re squirming, and because he’s nice, he lets them grind their pussy into his leg, just to relieve some of that pressure. 

They suck him so good he has to bite down on his knuckles so he doesn’t whimper too loud, suck him down so hot and wet and fucking nasty his eyes roll back in his head. They really are fucking gross, spitting on his dick to get it wetter, moaning with it like it’s their favorite fucking thing in the world. 

When he pulls them off him they whine loud, pulling against his hand in their hair to kiss at it, going  _ please, baby, please, please _ .

They don’t make it to the bed. He lays them out on their expensive fucking hipster rug and eats them out just as messy, spits on their pussy until they’re moaning with it, sucking them into his mouth until they pull his hair hard enough to sting, hard enough he pulls back and bites them just as hard on the back of their thigh. He holds them open for it, tells them to  _ keep your fucking eyes on me _ as he tongues them, pressing flat and hot against their asshole with his arm across their their stomach, feeling them clench under him. 

They’re fucking loud. They’re all  _ please, baby, fucking please, yes, just like that, fuck, oh my god, baby, baby, please _ . 

When he sinks his finger into them they both moan with it. They feel so perfect for him, slick and soft and scorching, mouth open wide when he licks into them, barely a kiss. They ask for more when he’s got two fingers into them, and then three, beg for it deeper, only going quiet when he fucks into them just the way they like it, pressing up unrelenting into their spot, barely pulling out before he digs in again and again and  _ strokes _ . 

He fucks them raw, because they’re his. He tells them as much right as the head of his dick pops in, one arm under them to pull them into him until they arch up perfect for him. Says  _ you’re mine, aren’t you, my perfect baby, my pretty boy _ as he rolls his hips into them, not thrusting, just digging in until he knows his dick is rubbing up right where they want him. They don’t hear him at first, eyes rolled back, panting with their head thrown back, wrapping their legs around him, locking him in, still trying to get it deeper, so fucking greedy with it. 

He digs his teeth into their neck, how could he not, with the way it’s laid out so pretty for him, already blooming with bruises. 

“Dick’s got you all stupid, huh?” He coos, pulling back just a little bit, shoving in hard so that they wail with it. “That good, baby?”

They say please, like it’s his name, over and over and over. 

“Please what?” He slaps them, wraps his hand around their throat, says  _ look at me, fucking look me in the eyes when you talk to me _ . 

They look him in the eyes, letting out the prettiest little breathless noise when he chokes them harder. They’re gorgeous like this, spit smeared across their mouth and chin, chest rising and falling in a staccato rhythm, shifting their hips around like they can’t help themselves. 

“M’yours,” they say, so sweet he has to kiss them for it, kiss them proper, fuck into them hard like they deserve, bearing down on them with most of his weight. He fucks them into the ground, grinds into them so good and deep tears form in the corners of their eyes, tears he kisses away. 

He gives it to them the way they need it, lets them dig their nails into his back and pull his hair and groan loud in his ear. Their nipples must be so sore from the way he bites them into his mouth, rolling the jewelry between his lips, but they take it so well for him. 

They come like that, with his mouth on them, with his hand around their throat, squeezing down tight on him, vice-tight. They go quiet when they do it, seize up with this wet little gasp, and he pulls off just to watch their face, their eyes rolling back, their pretty mouth dropping open, stomach tensing. He watches them come until his own orgasm creeps up on him, devouring him from the inside, pleasure licking up his spine like fire. He does whimper then, and they kiss him through it, lick the noise out of his mouth like it’s candy. 

He’s well and truly fucked, he thinks, as they grip each other through the aftershocks, kissing each other like they’ll die without it, like if they separate it’ll take the life and soul from their bodies. 

“What the fuck,” they say, when they pull back to breathe.  _ What the fuck _ , a little bit amused, a little bit in awe, a little bit appalled. 

_ I know _ , he says, pressing a kiss to their neck, digging his face in as they pet his hair, can’t get close enough to them.  _ I fucking know _ . 


End file.
